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Day WarStoriesWilliam 1961
Day WarStoriesWilliam 1961
Day WarStoriesWilliam 1961
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IN Birds:
Birds:1926
DiaryDiary
of anthere
Ùnknoum
of was Aviator,1
an Ùnknoumin which
published
are described
Aviator,1the
anonymously in which a work are described entitled War the
adventures of a very young Southerner as a pilot with the Royal Fly-
ing Corps in 191 7 and 1918. It is an awkward, amateurish book, but
it provides a remarkable vehicle for tracing the changing attitudes of
those young men who found themselves involved in the shocking emo-
tional experience of total, modern warfare without having been given
any idea of what to expect.
The mind of the young cadet as he sails for England is full of the
desire for adventure and the spirit of knight-errantry which still re-
mained in the South, only slightly altered after the Civil War.
I am leaving my continent as well as my country and am going forth
in search of adventure, which I hope to find. . . . Thank God, I am
going to have the opportunity to die as every brave man should wish
to die- fighting- and fighting for my country as well. (p. 9.)
These lofty sentiments are basically unchanged when the cadet com-
pletes his training and enters combat for the first time, although he
has become somewhat calloused in his attitude toward life and death:
"I'm either coming out of the war a big man or a wooden kimono. I
know I can fight, I know I can fly, and I ought to be able to shoot
straight" (p. 135).
But, after a few months at the front, something happens to the
young adventurer: "I can't write much these days. I'm too nervous.
I can hardly hold a pen. I'm all right in the air . . . but on the ground
I'm a wreck and I get panicky" (p. 326). In the chaos and violence
of war he matures quickly, losing almost overnight the romanticized
conception of warfare with which his heritage had equipped him. Fin-
ally, a few days before he is killed, we see the ultimate effect of the
unexpected brutality and destruction to which he has been exposed:
War is a horrible thing, a grotesque comedy. And it is so useless.
This war won't prove anything. All we'll do when we win is to
1. New York: George H. Doran Co. (Mr. Faulkner informe me that this is the
diary of a friend of his, Mac Crider, as edited by another ex-aviator, Elliott White
Springs, author of several flying stories about the first World War.)
[385]
I don't know what we were. ... we had started out Americans, but
after three years, in our British tunics and British wings and here and
there a ribbon, I don't suppose we had even bothered in three years
to wonder what we were, to think or to remember.®
They have sacrificed a great deal more than their identity as Ameri-
cans, however: Bayard Sartoris has become a drunken neurotic, full of
feelings of guilt over the loss of his twin brother five months earlier, and
already possessed by the strong necrophilia which ultimately causes
his death. After John Sartoris's crash, Bayard has exacted revenge in
the accepted tradition of the Southern gentility, by shooting down
his brother's killer. But he derives no satisfaction from his revenge, and
"After that ... he never did talk much; just did his patrols and maybe
once a week he'd sit and drink his nostrils white in a quiet sort of
way" (p. 414).
When we see Gerald Bland in Part II of The Sound and the Fury,
the action of which takes place in 19 14, he is a handsome, spoiled
Kentuckian whose mother is his constant companion at Harvard. Four
But they were all dead now. They are thick men now, a little thick
about the waist from sitting behind desks, and maybe not so good at it,
with wives and children in suburban homes almost paid out, with
. . . Sartoris dived at the dog and then looped, making two turns of
an upward spin, coming off on one wing and still upside down. . . .
at a hundred feet the engine conked, and upside down Sartoris cut
the tops out of the only two poplar trees they had left.
The sergeant said they ran then, toward the gout of dust and the
mess of wire and wood. Before they reached it, he said the dog came
trotting out from behind the men's mess. He said the dog got there
first and that they saw Sartoris on his hands and knees, vomiting, while
the dog watched him. Then the dog approached and sniffed ten-
tatively at the vomit and Sartoris got up and balanced himself and
kicked it, weakly but with savage and earnest purpose, (p. 527)
Then his hand dropped and he zoomed, and he held his aeroplane so,
in its wild snarl, his lips parted, his breath hissing, thinking: "God!
God! If they all were there- all the generals, the admirals, the presidents
and the kings- theirs, ours- all of them. (p. 509).